


15 Steps

by callale



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Kinda, M/M, Maybe angst with a happy ending idk, Near Death, Spoilers for The Stolen Century
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 08:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callale/pseuds/callale
Summary: Taako has night terrors and he always seems to die at the end.





	15 Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friend! These are mostly going to be short (probably not very coherent) angst drabbles. 
> 
> Basically, I couldn't get the idea that Taako's night terrors (I think initially mentioned as a joke by Justin in an early episode) are actually shadows of memories from the times he died during The Stolen Century. I think it'll be an interesting look at Taako coping with (although not realizing it) losing so much of his memory, and subsequently with losing Lup. 
> 
> Anyway, I figured I'd write up things as they came to me and post them here in hopes of giving other people the sads. I'll also totally take prompts if you want more angst!Taako, and you can find me hhomosuperior on tumblr for that ;-;

He doesn’t know where he is, but he understands that he is drowning.

He also knows this can go one of two ways: he can keep his mouth shut and eventually suffocate to death or he can swallow lung-fulls of foreign brackish liquid. He didn't like the sound of the second option. Regardless of how though, he knows he’s going to die (because that’s how this always ends) and while he still has some agency over his body, he tries for the former; somehow  _knowing_  suffocation is the better of the two options. He doesn’t think too hard about why he knows this, it’s not like he has ever drowned to death before. Anyway, it’s not like that matters right now either. He’s dying so it’s a little late for introspection. 

He also doesn’t remember how he got here or why the sea looks…wrong,  _feels_   _wrong_  to him.  _This isn’t F-_  but the thought stops as quickly as it begins because for a second he’s  _sure_  he feels his fingertips break the surface. And instantly he knows that even the air feels wrong here. It’s thick, almost tangible. He feels something grip his fingers and he blindly tries to find purchase on anything, _anyone_ who might be able to save him.

Almost as soon as he found something – a hand? – to wrap around, something else pulls him back down with such force he gasps and the not-quite-water floods into his mouth and is forced into his lungs. In an instant, his lungs are on fire and he can’t do fuck all about it. He can't even resist the urge to take another breath, because what’s the fucking point.

He’s really dying in earnest now.

He’s not afraid of dying though, not really. Not when he feels like he’s spent a lifetime dying already. Nah, this is like the rote memorization of spell components – something he can do without really having to think about it. It would almost be a comforting feeling if it wasn’t for the pain because honestly  _fuck that_. That shit doesn't get easier.

As he is pulled further into the dark and opalescent liquid, he tries to call out for someth- _someone_  but he can’t quite make his mouth form the word. It’s like grasping at the hand above the water. Almost there.  _Almost solid_ , but not enough to make any fucking difference. For some reason, this frustrates him the most and a near-primal yell, muffled by the liquid surrounded him, bubbles up and out of him. It doesn’t take long after that for everything to go black.

But it doesn’t stay that way for long, either.

Somehow it never does.

 

* * *

 

 

Taako wakes with a start, rolls to the side of his small cot in his shitty dorm on the moon, and retches onto the floor. It’s not the most graceful start to the day but he forgot to move the bin back into place after the last time. He doesn’t think about it. Instead, deep tremors roll through his body and he’s gasping for air, filling his lungs as fast and as quickly as he can.

_It was a dream. It was a dream. It was a dream._

He chants it to himself like an incantation, like somehow that’ll dispel the memory of what he’s just woken from.

It doesn’t.

His lungs burn under the effort and speed at which he’s trying to continuously pump oxygen into his body. He can hear the rush of his heartbeat in his ears and it sounds like the ocean, salty tears find their way to his lips. He retches again although this time he doesn’t even make it on to the floor. He hates himself for reacting this way; the way his body reacts to a fucking  _dream._ Mentally he’s not even here right now,  _checked the fuck out_ , but his body thrashes and trembles and feels like it’s going to pull itself apart at the seams. It’s fucking embarrassing.

He blindly reaches for the umbra staff and some of the tension leaves his body once his fingers find it and curl around it. An image of his hand breaking water in a desperate attempt to find purchase flashes before him but he refuses to acknowledge it. Instead, he brings the staff close to him and stays like that for a while. Just clutching it with white-knuckled terror and trying to will his limbs to stop shaking so hard.

This is not his first nightmare. It’s not the first time he’s died in one either, but that doesn’t seem to make it any easier.

He’s tried everything to get rid of them, potions, incantations, meditation, sleep deprivation. Hell, he's even tried taking something  _Merle_  had given him from a cedar box stashed beneath his bunk. No, it wasn’t for a lack of  _trying_. But they have gotten worse, more frequent and intense since coming to the not-moon - since beginning their noble and pointless fucking quest to save the world or whatever. He’s not even sure the place is worth saving anymore, not if it means waking up like this. _Being this._

After what he knows is a long time, though he willfully refuses to acknowledge it, he’s able to stand up. He looks down at the piles of vomit and can’t bring himself to clean them up yet, but rather crosses the room on still shaking legs to find a glass of water. The water feels cool against his raw throat and he still gags. He forces himself to swallow, pushing back any feeling of discomfort. At this point, this is battle of will between his mind and his body, and he will not fucking lose. He drains the contents of the glass in a fluid motion and he tells himself ‘ _it was a dream, it was a dream, it was a dream’_ while he does it _._

But he cannot make himself believe it.

 


End file.
